


Acceptance

by Aja



Category: Actor RPF, Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, RPF, i blame leo, omfg i can't believe, oscar night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 23:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6134437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OH GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS A THING I ACTUALLY DID here is uh a tiny notting hill AU continuation I guess</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

> (psst this is a sequel to [I Seem to Be a Verb](http://archiveofourown.org/works/420314) and makes no sense without having read that, but i'm sups embarrassed so i just unlinked it from that fic because i don't want anyone who actually read that whole thing to have it connected to and thusly ruined by the WHATEVER OF WHATEVER THIS IS ahaha i'm a hazardous material i'm sorry.)

Kate Winslet’s face lights up when she sees Arthur on the red carpet, and even though Arthur should be used to seeing her by now, he still goes red-faced when she flings her arms around him. 

“You do remember we’re kind of neighbors,” he says, hugging back while trying not to crumple his suit too badly.

“Oh, shush, I haven’t seen you two in weeks,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. Then she turns and punches Eames on the arm. “You’ve got to stop squirreling him away, don’t you know if you only ever bring him out in small doses it just makes the paparazzi frenzy worse?”

Next to him, Eames is casually sporting tailored all-black Versace and is quite simply the hottest thing Arthur has ever seen. Arthur had tried to tell him so, but he’d been so worked up when he’d been doing Eames’ tie earlier in the evening that his hands had been shaking, and finally Eames had simply clasped Arthur’s wrists and stilled him and backed him against the dresser and said, “Arthur, darling, we don’t have to go to this rumpus if you don’t feel up to it,” and he’d been totally relaxed and smooth and earnest in a way that made Arthur feel as though he could take on eight awards ceremonies and then several afterparties without breaking a sweat as long as Eames kept looking at him that way. 

Now, though, Eames only smirks and slides his hand around Arthur’s waist in one of those suavely possessive moves Arthur just _knows_  is going to be giffed all over Twitter in five minutes. _Jesus_ , that’s hot. Arthur’s face is still red.

“Ah,” Eames says with a wink. “If I let them look too long at our dear Arthur, I’m afraid they may steal him and never give him back to me. I keep him under wraps for my own protection, not his.”

“That’s egregious and I’m too drunk to scold you for being ironically regresive,” says Kate Winslet. “Come on, I’ll take you to the Girl Scout cookies.”

“The what?” says Arthur.

“I bought Samoas,” says Kate Winslet.

Not only did Kate Winslet buy Samoas but she’s bought enough Girl Scout Cookies to feed everyone in a three-row radius inside the theatre. Arthur settles near Eames and tries not to stare at DiCaprio, because even though he’s had years to observe them together at this point, he _still_  can’t figure out whether DiCaprio is actually in love with Winslet or just socially awkward around women (people????) he’s made out with, and it tends to drive him a little crazy.

The ceremony is mostly boring, and long, and racist, but Arthur and Eames are near the aisle in their row, which Arthur has learned, also from years of experience, means the camera operators will be finding them frequently. He’s gotten good at ostensibly ignoring a camera in his face, but he’s deeply relieved, all the same, to have Eames’ hand to clutch whenever a rogue frisson of nerves sweeps through him. It helps that he’s wearing Cavalli, a new ash-grey tuxedo that lengthens all his lines and causes Eames to trail off in mid-sentence whenever he appears in it. 

It also helps that Eames keeps up a running commentary of the evening, leaning in and whispering soft jokes in Arthur’s ear, trying his best to make Arthur crack up on camera. Arthur does his best but slips a few times, most notably when Eames quips that Fischer looks like he’s trying to will the ‘Best Director’ card back inside the envelope. 

But then, it’s time for the Best Actor award, and even though Eames has been fine, totally fine, for all these months, even though he’s glided effortlessly through the endless awards season and press circuit in the lead-up to this night, suddenly he’s the one gripping Arthur’s hand as tightly as he can, and even though his expression hasn’t changed a bit, Arthur can see by the minute tightening in his jaw that no matter how much things will _absolutely not change_  after this, no matter how obsolete the Academy grows from year to year—it matters to Eames more than he’s admitted. And suddenly it matters so goddamn much to Arthur he feels like his chest is going to burst from the hope that wells up there.

And then—

And then—

When Eames’ name is called most of the people around them spring to their feet, a wave of exultation that rockets through Arthur and through the entire building. Fangirls in the balcony are losing their minds. Next to him Eames is straggling to his feet, looking dazed, and Arthur thinks, _oh, get up, loser_ , and rockets to his feet. He tugs Eames into a hug and there’s a camera next to them and then Eames’ mouth is on his, brief but deep and sweet, and he whispers, “ _Thank you,_ ” for some nonsensical reason, beaming at Arthur for a moment before he dashes up the aisle and onstage.

Arthur tries to memorize every word of Eames’ acceptance speech, which in typical Eames’ fashion is off-the-cuff, a bit garbled, and rather stream-of-consciousness. But when Eames gets done rattling off production team thank-yous, he takes a deep breath and speaks again—and if he’d sounded nervous before, now he sounds absolutely jittery.

“I wouldn’t be standing here tonight without the support of my partner and my best friend, Arthur,” he says. He shoots a shit-faced grin at Arthur, who tries to look proud and supportive and not like a deer in headlights. Then he swallows and starts to fidget. “And I kept thinking, all night, about what I could do to commemorate this moment with him, because as you might know, the milestones of our relationship have honestly all happened in public.” He’s babbling but his eyes are still fixed on Arthur, who can only look back and try to drink him in. “And so I, er—I hope he’ll forgive me this one final indulgence, because obviously I’m keeping him on camera longer than he likes to be on camera, and I didn’t even come prepared, but, um—Arthur, darling, this is the happiest moment of my life, and I hope you can help me make it even happier.“

There’s a momentary pause, and the bottom suddenly drops out from beneath Arthur as Eames says:

“Arthur L—, will you marry me?”

Later, Arthur will watch this moment from the vantage point of the room’s hundreds of cameras and cameraphones, and he will still fail to recognize the guy in the audience who gets slowly to his feet, gradually smiles, winks, and curls his two thumbs and forefingers into a heart as he mouths ‘yes’ over the screams of what sounds like the entire city block. That guy is debonair, some posh, suit-wearing A-lister who deserves to be on the arm of the world’s most celebrated actor. That guy is nothing like Arthur, whose entire world narrows to the invisible thread that winds down the aisle and connects him to Eames, to Eames in his beautiful dusk-black suit and his beautiful smooth-shaven face and his green-grey eyes and his hopeful hangdog expression and his heart beating so loudly Arthur can hear it where he sits—it’s practically bounding out of his chest, visible from space. Or maybe that’s Arthur’s own.

He’s aware of noise all around them, of the orchestra busily playing, of someone pushing him out into the aisle and up the stairs, and this must be some kind of awards ceremony first, Arthur thinks, but then Eames is reaching for him, tugging him onstage, and Arthur’s arms lock around him, and no one is ushering them offstage or making them leave, so Arthur just holds on and looks at Eames and thumbs the spot on the back of Eames’ neck that always makes him go pink around the ears.

“Yeah,” he says. “I will. I do. And all that jazz.”

And then he’s kissing Eames, Eames holding his Oscar in one hand and Arthur in the other, and Eames is mouthing the words, _I love you_ , into the kiss, and flashbulbs are exploding all around them and behind Arthur’s eyes once again; but Eames is going to be there when he opens them. 

It’s all going to be better than fine.

**Author's Note:**

> OH GOD


End file.
